The Broken Man

by Hawkings Austin

  The two warriors would not show any sign of weakness and matched nearly perfect skill. The giant was greater in reach, strength, and endurance. The Daen was greater in speed and cunning. In the white sky, no one could count the time, but the ring of their swords became the only sound, as all other fighting died around them. This was the battle of champions. This was the test of skill, by which all great warriors of either race would measure themselves forever after.

  Idris was alone, backed out of his army by the mad fury of a little woman. He thought to run, but she was fresh. He was weakening and, in her fury, she grew stronger. Answerer was no needle, so she hacked at his armor and drove his sword aside a dozen times. He had blocked many shots, but her blade had slipped under his shield and the tendons of his elbow had been severed with a long slice. Now his shield hung from his arm like a lead weight, and he could not raise his arm. She ducked in again, vanishing behind his shield, and cut at his knees. He turned to run, but he stumbled, dropping the shield and falling to the snow.

  Brea rushed at him, trying to land a killing stroke, but he rolled to his feet, and towering over her he struck down, intending to crush her head with a single blow. His arm was pinned in mid-air. The pain came to him slowly, as though the day had passed with him standing, staring at the spear which transfixed his arm.

  Berin Half-Hand had struck with such force that the needle tip of his spear had struck through the vambrace of armor upon his forearm, slid between the bones of his arm, and passed back out through the leather on the other side. Count Nog’s sword fell from suddenly lifeless fingers. He dropped to his knees.

  Berin’s face was pale.His breath fogged from him as his lungs worked like bellows, but his hand was steady. He shifted his weight, bracing the spear pole across the boss of his shield.

  “I thought you might need me.”

  Brea didn’t answer. They both looked back at the mill of armies, strangely quiet now. Only a single ring of swords could be heard. The press of bodies was thick, but their attention would center on her soon enough. The roar of the crowds promised a telling wound. It would not be long now.

  Brea stepped forward, as Answerer slid into the shoulder straps of the Count’s armor, cutting them free. The giant stared at her. Kneeling he was still taller than she, and, if he could move either arm, would have broken her in his grip, but she grabbed his armor and pulled it from him.

  “Do you know why I am not taking your head?” she asked.

  He shook his head numbly, unable to understand how this woman had beaten him. He who was better than her in every way he could imagine.

  “Because my husband told me to cut out your heart.”

  CHAPTER 8 WAYLAID AND SETH

  Midsummer’s Day, Year Twenty-Seven of King Cail’s Reign

  The King must be whole. The people will not follow a broken man.

  - First Law of the Fomor

  Waylaid rode standing at the back of the chariot. His legs were spread wide, locking his feet into the wicker of the sides of the basket, his left hand clamped on the spear rail, keeping him from flying out of the back of the chariot at each bump. Seth had full control of the front of the chariot, as much as he ever had, but felt constrained, as Waylaid seemed to tower over him as few other soldiers had.

  Keynan aggravates me at least this much. It was an attempt to reassure himself that this would be survivable. He had never had a giant on the back of his chariot, but he had carried Keynan a few times. Keynan leaned in, hogging the floor space. Not to mention that he was nearly as tall as Waylaid. The last was an exaggeration, but Keynan was a good bit taller than Seth. Waylaid was much taller still, but Keynan was tall.

  Waylaid was quiet, lost in some internal thought. His eyes roved the road, the fields, and the small houses of the workers. He seemed happy to be out of Ard. He suddenly spoke using the language of the Blessed Folk.

  “The grain fields here are smaller than the size prescribed by the Good Father’s Law of Inheritance.”

  Seth nodded, but answered in the Ruad dialect.

  “Ruad don’t follow Daen Law.”

  Waylaid quoted from the scroll of law. “The Law prescribes The Field as supporting the bread for a hundred men for a year.” The quote was deep in the law scrolls which Seth had studied to achieve his journeyman priest status. Waylaid quoted like a Master of Law, deep stentorian tones rolling richly.

  Seth switched his language to Daen, which he had rarely used outside of a classroom. He realized that part of his aggravation with that evil looming monster was that Waylaid made him feel like a child. A child now in legal class once again.

  “Yes Master, that quote is correct.”

  “Taxes are always one in seven, huh?” After the smooth quote, Waylaid’s question, the sudden bark, felt like a slap to the back of his head.

  Seth winced, expecting the physical blow. “Always,” he answered―then amended, “Master.”

  “But with the number of houses here, these peasants have barely enough field for half that much, and I have heard that their taxes are near on to one basket in five.”

  “Ruad law isn’t the law handed down to the Children of the Blessed Mother, Master Waylaid,” Seth replied, warming to the topic. “I know that Ruad nobles barely let the peasants get enough food to live on out here and never let them get well-off, but the country folk have the freedom to go elsewhere; there are always more Ruad peasants to take their place.”

  “Judge Brea should enforce her justice; make their laws conform to what is proper, not what maximizes their profits.”

  Seth laughed at Waylaid. “You know that the nobles don’t have much choice, don’t you?”

  “Eh?”

  Seth relished his upper hand, the chance to show the old priest that he was being naïve. “The King, his philosophers, they are provided for out of the nobles’ store houses. Even more, if a noble is stingy with his wealth, the King may decide to give it all to one of his favorites.”

  “Ahh, I understand; the King loves the people, so he doesn’t tax them. He can play the Good King; the philosophers play the priests who pray.” He waved his hand ineffectually in the air to indicate the value of their philosophies as opposed to good honest prayer. “They pray to improve the lives of the peasants, and the nobles must perforce be the villain of the story, the tax man.”

  “Same story, different actors,” said Seth, shouting back over the bump and squeak of the chariot wheels.

  “So, for the Blessed Folk,” said Waylaid, springing his trap, “how does Mistress Brea fit into that story?”

  Seth frowned, stuck between a solid line of reasoning and a fit of personal loyalty. “Mistress Brea is the tax man, but she is also the priest. In her case, she is also the voice of the ruling council, effectively the king.”

  “She has the power to change everything, but she can blame the Ruad King for all that goes wrong here, as the Ruad King blames the Bolg for all his failures. Thirty years ago she would have blamed the Fomor Kings. She is still…”

  “No!” interjected Seth. “No,” he continued more calmly, suppressing his anger. “She killed the Fomor. When the Fomor rebelled and took back their old lands, she struck the crowns from their heads. If the Ruad were evil, as the Fomor were, then she would kill them as well.”

  “Good,” said Waylaid, “you identified the central truth.”

  “What?” asked Seth, recovering from his anger; Waylaid was driving him to distraction. “What central truth? What are you talking about?”

  Waylaid didn’t answer, so Seth focused on driving over a ditch wall which had crossed over the road. Waylaid had to hop out and lift the chariot over the drainage ditch, but then they were out of the fields and onto a clear stretch of road.

  Waylaid still did not answer; he had never really intended to. Questions and statements like that were purely for making one’s students think. Waylaid had been a master priest for years, and rather enjoyed the habit of debating his students. Seth was becoming more interesting to
argue with, but Waylaid was distracted from continuing.

  Heading south from East Gate they had run out of road fairly quickly. The East Gate road was a good road that headed all the way east, about a day by chariot, to the coast of the Shallow Sea. But Waylaid, in his wisdom, had chosen south. Instead of smooth driving to the east, they were crossing fields and taking ever smaller paths toward the north-south traveling trade road that should cross their path somewhere southwest of Ard. This shortcut was rarely used by anything bigger than a person. There wasn’t a lot of road, just a footpath at this point. The chariot strode the footpath more by coincidence than any planning.

  Crossing the ditch, Waylaid stepped out and lifted the wheels over the ramparts.

  They found themselves back on a road; it crested a small hill and looked out across a stretch of bare land. There was an obelisk and room for several fields, but no one had built a house near here. The land was not planted but grown up in bushes and tall grasses. A few trees marked out the edges of ancient fields, but nothing of consequence grew in them.

  On this otherwise clear stretch, the road angled past the grave marker, a Fomor-high column of green-veined marble. It was octagonal at the base but narrowed to a sharp point just above shoulder height. The body was marked with the old script that was Waylaid’s first language, and he stared at it as they approached. The chariot slowed, the ponies pulling against a strain. Seth felt weak, drained for a moment. The trip seemed like days of travel already, and they hadn’t been out half a day. The ponies complained about the load, and Seth looked over at the road.

  “It’s a bit marshy here, I guess. It wouldn’t be smart to build on low ground. The wheels seem to be digging in.”

  Waylaid looked away from the obelisk and up the fields at the long low ditches, which drained the marshy ground. The bright green fields of barley were growing steadily in the rich wet soil of midsummer. The Fomor servants had little weeding or tending to do. With their robes wrapped as simple kilts, a handful of men were beating the field for roe deer and two were checking that the drainage ditches hadn’t gotten clogged.

  Two men were cutting away some bushes that were pushing from the river edge into the field. Their bright bronze blades were moving opposite each other; the first would rise while the other fell. Each blade moved up and down as regular as a heartbeat.

  The scene before Waylaid looked just like the day he had returned home after his years of training as a priest. He laughed and pushed himself backwards out of the chariot, dropping lightly to the ground. He grabbed the side rail to keep from falling as his right knee locked.

  “Burn it,” he grumbled, stumbling in a long limp. “I guess I’m not quite as young as I remember.”

  Dragging the leg and making up the pace with the edge of the cart and his good left leg, he managed to pull himself even with the chariot as they passed the obelisk. The chariot was moving slowly, and he dragged himself upright, rocking the chariot onto one wheel and nearly upsetting Seth over the side.

  The woman walking alongside the chariot was tall and beautiful. Her robe of fine-woven golden wool was trimmed with thick ribbons of purple suede. It was tied up over her left shoulder in waves of cloth, dropping toward her right leg like a waterfall in a mountain stream. The robe was snug about her left leg, wrapped with gold cord to look like breeches, but her right leg was nearly free, and flashes of her smooth brown hip showed in sharp contrast to the texture of the wool as she walked. Her left arm was tucked inside the folds of cloth about her left shoulder, but her right arm was free, as was her right breast.

  Beautiful brass jewelry and gems circled her wrist and her neck. Her long black hair was held with brass pins studded with emeralds. The hair fell in thick waves, following the folds of golden cloth down her left side. Her skin was pale for a Fomor, an earthy cream with deeper shades of olive, but her eyes were black as coal. She stood nearly as high as Waylaid’s shoulder, a tall woman even among the Fomor.

  “Welcome, traveler,” she said.

  He bowed to her and spoke a formal Fomor greeting.

  “I am humbled by your welcome. I abide at your pleasure.” He looked back up the hill they had just descended to see the ancient Fomor fortress, its shining white walls girding its gates of polished brass. The fortress had famously guarded the crossroads of Ard in the days of Fomor dominion. Looking ahead up the wide and well-kept road, he could see the crossroads itself.

  “This place is beautiful. It reminds me of my ancestral home by the Blackwater. I remember my childhood days there best, when King Brannon ruled all the land, before my brother and I were sent to the priests for safe keeping. I never had much time there once I returned.”

  “The Blackwater Castle is lovely, a lovely place to be raised,” she said, “my prince.” She raised her hand to touch the side of his face, but he jerked away. Seth yelled something, but it was distant.The words blurred by some thickness in the air.

  “I am too hideous,” he said. “My face is a horror. You must look away.”

  “Hideous?” she laughed. “Maybe it is terrible to look at for a creature of darkness, a dark angel bound in service to the Dragon, but to me your eye is like a brilliant light, the likes of which I have never seen. I could stare upon your countenance for hours.”

  “That cannot be,” he argued. “The priests broke me. They struck my face with an axe. I am a broken man; the gods will not see me.”

  She laughed, laying a hand upon his shoulder.

  “Perhaps a normal priest; their face is like the shell of a rotten egg. Breaking it releases something horrible and reeking. But you, my dearest prince, are a vessel of light, a sun captured in flesh. They did not break you; they only opened the lantern to let your light be seen by us poor dead, who cannot see the sun.” She continued, working to convince him of her sincerity.

  “Here you are, our prince, come with me into our fields for a day of simple work. Join me in the Fortress to drink sweet hydromel and dance the centuries away. Live as the Fomor haven’t lived in a thousand years. With your light as our defense, the evil gods would never try our walls again.”

  They walked alongside the fields for a few moments, while Waylaid looked out at the green fields. His feet kicked the dust of a well kept road, while elsewhere he pushed them through overgrown brambles.

  “I would,” he said. “The land here is so beautiful, but I believe these people need me. They are a lesser people than us, to be sure, but still worthy of protection. They fear sorcery and the magic of the ancient gods, and…regretfully, I do not. Perhaps, while I still draw breath, I can be of some use.”

  She raised her arm in an invitation to question, and he asked her, “Have you had sorcery in these lands? Children have been slain, of the Ruad, yes, but still human. Is this sorcery or blood magic?”

  She shrugged, most alluringly.

  “I have seen no sorcerer other than you, my prince. No sorcery has crossed my fields. Now blood magic, oh yes.We have seen the burned man fed.” She waved her arm to encompass the field. “There are many here who desire such riches, but we have been well trained and take only a little life from each traveler. You are excluded from this, of course.”

  Waylaid turned from her, staring back down the road at Seth. The chariot wheel had become entrapped in the road; a tree root had struck through it and wound around a spoke. Seth had been forced to take an axe to it. Waylaid felt distant from that problem but motioned to her and pointed at the frozen wheel.

  “Release him, we will finish our talk.” He turned back to her. “The Burned Ghost was fed blood?”

  “Perhaps you do not know of the sorcerer in your midst.” The lady grinned shyly. “Have you taken an apprentice?”

  Waylaid walked slowly back to the obelisk, freeing his knife from its sheath. The hilt was bone, but the blade was a single piece of black obsidian from a holy cave within the secret mountains of the Fomor, across the shallow sea. The chariot came free slowly. Seth was talking to him again, but Waylaid focused on
the woman pacing beside him.

  “Would you have me bind you?” he asked.

  “Bind me to you, my prince.” She licked her lips. “I have been bound to that stone a thousand years. I have lived in this paradise a thousand years, and I long to be free again.”

  Waylaid looked to Seth.The wheel had come free, and he shouted angrily at Waylaid.

  “Have you gone deaf? I could have used some help!”

  Waylaid shook his head.

  “I helped all I could.” He thought for a moment and added, “If you really want my attention, use a real language, not Ruad, I just tune it out.”

  Seth looked confused.

  “Everyone speaks Ruad, what do you mean?”

  “No, Seth.” Waylaid corrected him. “Everyone in Ard speaks Ruad, but that really isn’t much of the world, when you come to think on it. No one a day’s march from Ard speaks Ruad. It isn’t a language of Pywer; it is from the East.”

  “I can speak the language of the Blessed Folk,” Seth said, in that language. His accent was terrible, as he had hardly practiced since basic training.

  Waylaid waved him back. “Pardon me, but I have business here.” He stuck his knife into the stones, brushing away a century’s accumulation of dirt.

  “Ahh, I love the old script, even chiseled in stone it has grace.”

  He moved further down the stone. “Here you are; what lovely letters you have, Alanna. Right?”

  He felt, more than saw, the flicker in her form when he spoke her name.

  “Awake. Dear Alanna, Spirit of the Field, attend me.” The world flickered and returned to an open, somewhat swampy field. The ditches and dikes were low humps on the ground, visible only from the memory of their place. No servants moved through the grass, and the roe poked their heads from the tall grass, looking questioningly at human voices.